Things We Didn't Say

Chapter 4

Michael



Kate startles me as she says in my ear, “Oh, the copy desk will love you for that.”

Typing up the mall shopping story, I’d written, “ ‘It’s a tough economy, but we’re all hoping that with credit finally loosening up, the shopping season will give retailers a nice boost,’ said Kenneth Delaney, spokesman for the Michigan Retailer Association, otherwise known as Captain Obvious.”

I backspace past my sarcasm. “I wasn’t really going to leave that in.”

“Get your fun where you can, eh?” Kate flops into her chair at her desk, just to the right of me. “I had the fun of interviewing your father.”

“Sorry. But then, I’m interviewing your mall managers, so I guess we’re even.”

“It was fine. He returns calls, knows how to spew a pithy quote, doesn’t nitpick the story after it’s published. My idea of a perfect source.” She stretches her arms over her head, tipping back in her chair. Her blouse rides up to reveal a sliver of skin, and I glance away.

“Yeah, he’d love to hear that. He loves to be perfect at anything.”

“Tell us how you really feel, Mike.”

“You know how family is.”

Kate’s cell goes off, singing, “Since you’ve been gone . . .” She mutes the phone and tosses it theatrically in her bottom desk drawer. “My ex. His own special ringtone.”

“What now?”

“He thinks I owe him money. He’s thinking of suing me. He thinks he’s God. What else is new? I swear he invented crazy. And I married it. What the hell were we thinking, Mike?”

“Kate, I have to finish this up. I may have to get out of here early today, so—”

“Okay, sorry. Very diligent of you.”

My dad’s voice echoes across the years: What the hell were you thinking?

My mother was sobbing into her hands like I’d just told her I had incurable cancer.

“I hope she’s going to get it taken care of,” my father snapped, pacing in front of the brick fireplace, his shadow slicing across the floor.

My mother gasped. “Henry!”

“Marian, they are not equipped for this. How can he start a family and graduate at the same time? And then support a kid on a starting journalist’s salary? He’ll be lucky to support himself. We’re still paying for his car. And who is this girl, anyway? We’ve never heard of her. What happened to Heather?”

“Another guy happened to Heather. And I told you, her name is Mallory.”

“Mallory, the name tells me nothing. What is she studying? And why in God’s name was she not on the Pill? This is the nineties, you have to be a mental defective to get pregnant accidentally.”

“I will not let you talk about her that way!” My voice came out unnaturally high and reedy. Some big-talking man I was.

“Oh, great, now I suppose you’re in love with her.”

My mother wiped her eyes, her face shiny wet in the firelight. “Are you?”

There was hope in her face. Love would make it okay for her, because then it wasn’t a terrible mistake, it could be welcomed instead of dreaded. I saw it all in her mouth slightly agape, her breath caught.

“I’m very . . . we’re passionate about each other.”

“Too bloody passionate,” interjected my dad, who’d sunk into the club chair near the fire.

“We weren’t thinking—”

“What else is new.”

“Henry! That’s enough.” My mother drew herself up, her five-foot frame looking like a sliver compared to my dad’s hulking form in the chair. “Michael needs our support. And this is a grandchild! Not a problem to be discarded! I’m not happy about the way it came about myself, but what’s done is done.”

My mother wrapped her thin arms around me. I rested my chin on top of her head.

“Mikey. We’ll figure it out. And I think we’d better meet her, don’t you think?”

My phone yanks me back to the present moment, alerting me to a text.

Mallory’s here, no Dylan yet, reports Casey.

Poor Casey, having to fend her off alone. But there’s this story, stupid as it is, and I have to get it done. Then I’ll get home. And everything will be fine.

The words in my notebook swim in my vision. What was I thinking indeed?

But without Mallory, there’s no Angel, no Dylan. And there was very nearly no Jewel because I’d finally packed my bags to go . . .

“Mike.”

When I pull myself out of my thoughts, I notice I’d been tracing my scar.

Kate waves her hand in my direction. “Are you okay? You look pale.”

“Just tired,” I tell her, waving her off, forcing myself to stare again at the screen.

She lowers her voice and rolls her chair a little closer. “Is it Casey?”

I fight to keep from rolling my eyes. In an idiot-moment over a lunchtime Reuben, I’d told Kate that Casey is a terrific girl but she didn’t seem up to the stepparenting gig. Kate had covered my hand with hers, and I let myself feel sad, and I let myself be comforted for a moment that stretched a little too long. Since then I’ve had to be vigilant about being professional, friendly, and no more.

Yes, Kate’s gorgeous, and she’s also full of sympathy and sweet, understanding smiles. I also happen to know she’s cunning and calculated, which is one reason she’s such a goddamn good reporter.

“I can’t talk right now,” I tell Kate, and she finally rolls back to her screen.

I look at the computer clock. It’s now 2:00 P.M. That means no one has seen or heard from Dylan in over six hours. He’s not answering his phone or texts. This is not like him. In fact, he’s the most dependable of all of them. Though he’s been quiet lately, even by his standards. What have I missed?

I tell myself again it’s probably nothing and buckle down to get the story done, so I can get home and make damn well sure it’s nothing.


I’m just spell-checking the shopping story and removing all sarcastic asides when two e-mails arrive. One is from the publisher, reminding all of the four o’clock meeting. The other is from Kate.


Hey Mike,





I know you’re not just tired. You have “ex stress.” I can see it all over your face. Been there, done that. Oh, come to think of it, still doing that.





Hang in there. I was going to say it will get better but it probably won’t! Anyway, wouldn’t want you to stick your head in an oven or something. This place would be boring without you.





Want to get a drink after work? My treat.





K.





I slide my eyes over to her. She looks sideways at me and smiles a little, one of those encouraging smiles, a silent “chin up!”

I e-mail her back, wishing I could move to an empty desk farther away from her without the gossip mill starting to churn.

Can’t. Potential crisis at home. Report back to me about 4 o’clock meeting, though. I have to leave.

I file the story and go hover by Aaron to get his attention. He’s on the phone with someone combative, based on his repetition of the phrase, “I understand what you’re saying.”

I can’t take it anymore. I seize a piece of paper out of a notebook on Aaron’s desk and scribble: Home emergency. Have to leave. Story filed.

I toss it in front of his face. Just as I turn to walk away, I catch a glimpse of him whirling around in his chair to say something to me, but I pretend I didn’t see it and just go straight for my coat.


It’s a struggle not to speed as I drive home. Mallory and Casey are not a good mix together, not on the best of days. I kept them apart for a long time, and discouraged the kids from talking about Casey. I didn’t forbid it, exactly, I just told them that Casey was only a friend and their mother didn’t have to hear every detail of my life.

Dylan and Angel got it, tragically fluent in the language of divorce.

Jewel, though, talked about Casey painting her toenails. When I picked the kids up, she screamed at me about this new “girl” dolling up Jewel like “a harlot.”

My crazy hope to see Dylan sitting on the porch is dashed. The porch is empty, and it’s unsettling to be home now during the week, the sun still high.

Just inside the front door, I hesitate, listening.

I don’t see Mallory until she’s on top of me. She’s hurtled herself at me, torpedo fashion, clinging to me and weeping. “Where is he, Mike? Where’s our baby?”

“Where’s Casey?”

“Do you think I care where she is? Where’s our son?”

“I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on.”

Casey walks to the living room entryway from the kitchen, holding the phone to her ear and waving the band parent list at me.

I nod, and try to pry Mallory off of me long enough for me to take off my coat.

“Don’t panic yet. He’s probably just cutting school.”

The more I’ve said this today, the less I believe it.

“Bullshit,” Mallory spits, now pacing like a caged predator. “Dylan is a good kid, he doesn’t pull stuff like this. He wouldn’t make me worry.”

Casey comes to the doorway. “I just talked to the music teacher, who asked his friends at EXA. No one has seen him at all. They all assumed he was home sick today. I also called the friends from his old school. Nothing. And for some reason, Jacob isn’t talking to him anymore at all.”

Mallory had stopped in the center of the room, but she resumed pacing. “Something terrible has happened. I know it. I know it in my heart.”

Casey’s cell phone buzzes, and we all stop to stare at her while she looks at the screen. She shakes her head and puts her phone back away without answering.

“What could have happened?” I mutter.

“How could you lose him!” Mallory shouts, and I’ve started to defend myself when I notice she’s shouting at Casey.

“Hey, I’m the one who drove him to school. And I’m telling you, he walked right in the building.”

“But something is going on, isn’t it? You live with him every day. Don’t you know what’s on his mind?”

I step between them as Casey hugs her sweater around herself, shrinking against the archway to the kitchen. “If anyone would know, it would be me. Don’t put this on her.” I put my arm around Casey’s shoulders. Her body feels tight and hard, like wire on a spool.

Mallory tosses her head. “Of course, I guess I shouldn’t expect that of your girlfriend. It’s not like she knows anything about raising kids.”

Casey shouts from the archway, shrugging off my arm, “You’re his mother, and you don’t know!”

“He doesn’t live with me every day. I’m only allowed to have him two weekends a month.” Mallory turns away, her voice cracking over the words. “I can’t believe this girl is allowed to see my son more than I am.”

I want to yell that she agreed to that, and in fact if she hadn’t pulled that stunt with Jewel in the car she would probably still have custody. And that this girl is the one holding her kids’ hair back when they vomit in the middle of the night.

But the house phone rings, and I run across the room to seize it.

“Angel, honey, calm down.”

“They’re all saying Dylan is missing, that he’s dead or something.”

It’s 2:40. She’s between school and play practice. I can hear the chaos of kids shouting to be heard in the halls, lockers slammed.

“Who’s saying such crazy things?”

“The kids. His old band friends. They say no one can find him, and Casey said he didn’t show up to class, and—”

“They’re just kids passing hysterical rumors. Casey was calling the band kids to see if anyone had seen him, or if one of his friends was also skipping school.”

“He won’t answer his phone.”

“I know, we’ve been trying, too. Has he said anything to you lately? Anything that might help us?”

“I want to come home.”

“Are you sure, sweetie? I’m sure he’ll turn up soon. All there is to do here is sit around and worry.”

Mallory has appeared at my elbow. “Of course she can come home if she wants.” She grabs for the phone, and I shrug her off.

“Mom’s there?”

“Yeah, she’s worried, too.”

“And you’re home from work. I wanna come, too. I don’t want to listen to all these kids talk about Dylan.”

“Okay. Meet me by the auditorium then. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

I hang up and pull my coat back on.

“I could go get her,” Casey quickly offers.

Mallory, hand on hip, interjects, “She wants her parents right now.”

Mallory can’t get her because she doesn’t have a license anymore. She must have taken a cab to the house.

“I’ll be back soon.” I cast a look at Casey. She seems washed out and wan. I give her a small smile, the same “chin up” look Kate gave me at the office.

I start up my car again and think of Dylan, only his face in my mind’s eye has regressed from a teenager to the mop-haired boy honking notes into his first saxophone, to the first-grader missing a tooth, to the chubby toddler covered in spaghetti.

I press down hard on the gas, wondering if it’s time to call the police.